


In the Beginning, There Was Nothing

by frostbitter



Series: Trying Times [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitter/pseuds/frostbitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes lives a boring life. Nothing was ever interesting enough for him. Not the cases, not the people, not the drugs. Even the sex was, to an extent, boring.</p><p>Until Captain John H. Watson walked into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Beginning, There Was Nothing

_In the Beginning, There Was Nothing_

 

The loud trill of the doorbell reverberates through the silent rooms of 221B, bouncing off walls until it reaches the ears of a very hungover Sherlock Holmes.

He ignores it, eyeballs flickering beneath pale eyelids, simply turning his head to the other side and snuggling up against his pillow.

The doorbell rings once more, followed by a persistent tap on the door. Sherlock ignores that, too. A loud sigh is heard and footsteps retreat.

On his nightstand, his cell phone buzzes. He already knows who it’s from and what it’s going to say, so he leaves the text unread, turning over so he’s resting on his back. His arm brushes another and Sherlock’s eyes snap open.

Despite the pounding in the back of his skull, he remembers what happened last night. The bar. The man lying beside him, his breaths slow and even as he continues to sleep. The sex. God, the sex.

Sliding out of bed, slowly, because he’s sore, Sherlock stands and examines his body. Dark purple bruises, the length of short fingers, line his hips, hickeys grazing his chest and shoulders, a shallow cut on the back of his calf, where he banged his leg against the coffee table, stumbling back as the man grasped his cock and gave it a rough stroke.

At the memory, his heartbeat quickens just a bit and he turns to the stranger lying in his bed. Perhaps he told Sherlock his name last night, in between kisses and moans, but it’s been forgotten. Even if he remembers, he would’ve deleted it, right about…now.

The man stirs, opens his eyes. He sits up and looks over at Sherlock, who is naked and does not bother to cover himself, a dark brow quirked at the man. “Hello,” Sherlock says.

“What happened?” the man says with a groan, his left hand pressing to his temple.

Irritation flares in his chest, hot and quick. “Your clothes are more than likely strewn all over my living room. If you could collect them on your way out, I would appreciate that,” he says, turning to his dresser. Lying on top is his robe, which he collects and slides on.

“Hold up,” the man begins, looking a bit offended at the sudden dismissal.

“Feel free to have some lemon pound cake on your way out. Mrs. Hudson made it and it’s delicious,” Sherlock makes his way to the bathroom – or limps, rather – and slams the door shut.

 

**++++**

Nearly an hour later, he emerges to an empty flat.

A piece of stationary paper is underneath his phone, a number written in block letters. Sherlock dresses, then picks the paper up and crumbles it, dropping it in his waste bin on his way into the kitchen. He opens his phone to read the text he ignored.

Happy birthday. MH

He rips a chunk off of the lemon pound cake and tosses it into his mouth, chewing as he thumbs back a reply.

Not quite. SH

I came by your flat this morning. No reply. Late night? MH

_Strobe lights, sweat running down his chest, the end of his curls sticking to the back of his neck, green eyes burning with fire, rough hands gliding down, bare skin, the taste of another’s saliva on his tongue-_

Dull one. What do you want? SH

 

**++++**

Black trousers are slid on, guiding along his long, slender legs. A dark-blue button up is pulled on, the buttons pushed into the holes by long, deft fingers. A bruise is forming below his collar bone, from where the man bit him roughly during their coupling last night. Sherlock makes sure the shirt is buttoned enough to hide it. Last thing he needs is Mycroft inquiring about the status of his skin.

His trench coat is slid on, the collar flicked up, like usual. Sherlock smoothens his hands down the flaps, then makes his way towards the door.

He stops. A bit of paranoia kicks in and he makes his way back into his room to grab his scarf, wrapping it around his pale throat. Then he strolls out of his flat, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

**++++**

An envelope is slapped on the table as Mycroft arrives.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, lightly dozing off while waiting for Mycroft to arrive. He jolts awake, looking up at his brother, then down at the envelope. “What’s this?” he draws as Mycroft sits down.

“You didn’t get much sleep,” Mycroft noted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Scintillating deduction, Mycroft.”

His brother’s eyes narrow. Ignoring the expression, Sherlock nudges the envelope. “What’s this?” he repeats.

“Happy birthday,” Mycroft says, forcing a pleasant smile on his face.

A waitress approaches, black hair up in a messy bun and tired eyes. Single mother of three, pregnant with her fourth, having problems with her current boyfriend and the father of her baby, owns a cat, no two, hasn’t had time to do her nails so they’re chipped but clean so clearly she has time for hygiene, possibly in her late twenties as she smiles and takes Mycroft’s order.

Sherlock chooses to pay attention to her instead of the gift, watching her with an emotionless expression as she walks away.

“Open it, then,” his brother says.

Sherlock sighs and picks the envelope up. Light, crisp, freshly bought. No doubt a sentimental card about brotherhood with some notes tucked in.

He’s right. The cover is a picture of two dogs, clearly brothers, snuggling close to each other, then the inside contains a bad pun – “Woof you!” – and Mycroft’s autograph beneath it. Also included are ten crisp 50 pound notes.

Sherlock eyes the amount of money he’s been given, then looks up at his brother. “Quite a lot of money.”

“You are currently unemployed, not looking and do not have a roommate to help pay for the rent. I figured that would help you get by while you get off your arse and finally start looking for a job.”

“I have a job,” he says shortly.

“A _real_ job, Sherlock. One that pays. This detective business, it doesn’t pay. It’s for fun,” Mycroft’s voice fills with a scoff at the last word.

A twitch in his right cheek as his teeth clench. “What makes you think I need money-“

“Oh, enough,” Mycroft interrupts with an exasperated sigh. “You already know the answer to that question. I got a concerned call from Mrs. Hudson. Turns out you missed your last rent payment and promised to pay it earlier last week, which you again neglected to do. She says you’ve been out late and-“ Mycroft clears his throat, looks around, then lowers his voice. “Returning with company.”

“That is none of your business.”

“You’re my brother and I am responsible for you. It is my business,” Mycroft hisses.

The look on Sherlock’s face makes him back off, leaning back in his seat and drumming his fingers on the table. He’s silent for a moment, then nods towards the card. “Did you like it?”

“Loved it,” Sherlock says, sarcasm in his voice, then adds, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

The waitress arrives with two cups of coffee and a bowl of creamers. Sherlock takes two and pours it into his cup, then takes a drink, watching as Mycroft peers into the cup and makes a face. “Honestly, Sherlock, why couldn’t you have met me at the Diogenes Club?”

“I was hungry.”

“You didn’t get anything to eat.”

“It passed,” Sherlock says in a dull voice, putting enunciation on the ending syllable in a tone reserved for reminding people how idiotic they are.

The hand gripping the coffee handle tightens and Mycroft levels his brother with identical green eyes. “Sherlock. You need a job and you need a roommate.”

“Dull.”

“ _Sherlock.”_

“No one would room with me anyways, Mycroft. I’m a freak, remember?”

Mycroft sighs, checks his watch. He stands, leaning against his umbrella like he always does. “One week is all I will give you.”

A silent tilt of the head is given. _Or what?_

“I’ll call Mother.”

He’s a thirty-three, now thirty-four, year old man living in London as the world’s first self-declared consultant detective. He’s been shot at, beaten, cut, scratched, bruised, broken and held gun-point by many people in many places, all for his cases. Yet his eyes widen and he leans forward, giving Mycroft what he was aiming for: Sherlock’s full attention. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me,” Mycroft says with a grin plastered on his face, clearly enjoying the look of turmoil in Sherlock’s expression. “One week,” he repeats as he throws down a note and leaves.

 

**++++**

“No, no, no!” Sherlock hisses under his breath as he flips through the morning paper. It’s been nearly a week since his visit with Mycroft and if he knows his brother quite well, he’ll have Mother in a taxi and in his apartment in less than a day, Father likely in tow, to kick Sherlock in the arse for not having a job. _A real job,_ Sherlock corrects himself with a roll of the eyes, annoyed that Mycroft threw that in his face. Especially since Lestrade hadn’t called him in over a month. He's driving himself crazy with the boredom.

All the job ads were for even-more boring things. Clerk, secretary, babysitter, librarian, teacher. All mundane things; nothing at all was even close to having to do with crimes or solving or _deduction._

Sherlock let out a groan and kneels down, meeting the paper halfway as he slams it into his face.

“Sherlock? Is that you?”

Sherlock’s lifts his head at the mention of his name. He turns to see a friend of Mycroft’s he met once, a few months back when they were having dinner with their parents. The name is almost forgotten, Sherlock shifting around through files and files of data until he comes across the one he’s looking for, labeled _Names of Useless People to Somewhat Remember_. “Mike Hampton?” he questions.

“Stamford,” Mike corrects with a grin on his face, reaching out to firmly shake Sherlock’s hand. “How’re you, buddy?”

“Bored,” is Sherlock’s common answer to these questions; it’s not a lie, he really is bored. But he supposes he ought to be polite and continues. “Job hunting, it seems. How are you?” he adds, as a formality.

“Good, good! The wife is almost due with our third, so that’s something we’re looking forward to,” Mike smiles, eases next to Sherlock, who was leaning against a lamp post and leafing through the classifieds.

“Congratulations,” Another formality.

“Thank you,” Mike beams, then peers over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Job hunting you say? I hope you have a good and patient flatmate, then. Some people just aren’t patient, paying the rent while the other is job hunting.”

He waits for an answer but gets none, as Sherlock flips the page. “You do have a flatmate, yes?”

Sherlock let out a snort, unintentional, of course. He turns to Mike, a brow rising. “Who would want me for a flatmate?”

 

**++++**

Sherlock hunches over an experiment, a baster slowly lowering down. His mind is half-focused elsewhere, on a case that Lestrade finally asked him to look into. He's nearly got it solved when the door opens and in walks two people.

He glances up, annoyance briefly crossing his features at the distraction, recognizing Mike Stamford. Behind him comes someone else.

The two men exchange a few comments and laughs. Sherlock is busy, so as usual, their voices instantly fade to background noise. The brief moment of isolated peace gives him enough time to solve the case. A grin touches his lips.

Mike sits down and makes himself comfortable, peering over at Sherlock over the top of his bifocals.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine,” Sherlock murmurs, voice below the average pitch as his attention remains on what’s in front of him.

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asks.

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, I left it my coat.”

Sherlock holds back an exasperated sigh and a _“What good are you, then?”_ Instead, he curtly nods.

The man that Mike brought with him coughs and reaches into his pocket. “Here, use mine.”

Sherlock’s attention wavers at that voice. Slowly, he turns to look at the man, who gives him a bit of a smile and holds the phone up.

Sherlock’s dimly aware of his pulse quickening as his eyes land on what he believes to be the most handsome man he has ever seen.

Shortly-cropped hair, blonde with a silver lining, in his late thirties. Face is weathered, dark eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea. A body that’s smaller in height but makes up by muscle. A shape that he finds himself aching to feel pressed against him.

Upon first glance, Sherlock deduces, as usual. He walks with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in his dominant hand, which is gripping a cane. Years of hardship, possibly war, have made their mark on this man, he holds himself high, shoulders squared, a stern set of the jaw, head leveled. Quite possibly a lieutenant, no, a _captain._

Unconsciously, Sherlock licks the front of his teeth.

 “Oh. Thank you,” he says, figuring it’s the polite thing to do, making his way towards the man.

Mike introduces the man as an old friend, John Watson. Sherlock takes the phone from his calloused hand, locking gazes with eyes he could drown in. He flips open the phone, a finger brushing the engraving on the backside.

_Harry and Clara… not his phone, given to him by his brother, alcoholic, going through a divorce, rarely keeps in contact. Definitely a captain, possible RAMC, recently discharged from duty and sent back to England, lives alone, can’t afford rent on a pension alone, tan lines above wrists, chafing of the arms, bags under eyes, very little sleep, more than likely has PTSD, wakes up from nightmares of the war, which one… Afghanistan._

Satisfied with his deduction, Sherlock looks up from the phone and meets John’s gaze. He stares for a second, knowing fully well why Mike Stamford brought him here. He was looking for a flatmate that could tolerate his violin rehearsals at three in the morning, tendency to not talk for days when thinking, brazen deductions, blunt opinions, _freakish nature._

He wonders if John Watson will be able to put up with it. He should put his best foot forward, impress the man, make him _want_ to be Sherlock’s flatmate, Sherlock’s friend and god knows what more. He should keep his deductions for himself, at least for a while.

But as he opens the phone and thumbs a message to Lestrade, his mouth opens and his arrogance is there, lying in the shallow dip of his jaw, as always. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”


End file.
